Four
by Angel1029
Summary: A mute girl tells her story of being with the Brooklyn newsies. Good times, bad times, and anything in between! Open to any comments, especially helpful ones. T just in case.
1. Prologue

**This one's just an idea that popped into my head. I don't know how far it will go but I'll attempt to finish it.**

**I, of course, do not own anything that you recognize from the movie. That should be obvious 'cause I don't think the owners of it would be writing fanfictions about their own movie.**

**N**

Hello. You may notice that I do not talk to you like a normal person would, but I have a good excuse. You see, I was born without the ability to speak- I was born dumb. My parents realized this when I uttered not a sound after being taken out of my mother's womb.

When the doctor said my vocal chords did not work and that I would never be able to speak, my parents were devastated. My mother had already borne four, healthy boys and I, their only daughter, was a mute. They tried so hard to get me to talk or cry- to utter any sound at all- but it was all in vain. I would never speak.

On my fourth birthday, a dark, dreary, Sunday, my father left me at my nursemaid's house for her to care for me. Now please note that four is not too young an age to notice these things. I had been excited for a beautiful birthday party with a cake and friends, but instead I was disowned.

Elizabeth, my nursemaid, cared for me for nine wonderful years. I never felt alone or different when I was with her; I was happy. That all changed when I was thirteen. Elizabeth found out that she had cancer and knew she would soon leave me. She was still optimistic but she knew what was going to happen. She tried to find a home for me before she died, but no one wanted a little mute girl.

She would get bruises for no reason and she was in so much pain. Through it all, she still found something to be happy about, no matter what the circumstances. I came home one day and found her on the floor. I started crying and she told me to calm down and listen. She gave me four things to remember: Love God, love others, be positive, and live life. She remained in our house for two days before she became unresponsive for another three. On the third day's night, I awoke and knew she had passed away; I knew she was in Heaven, forever happy. Only three months shy of my fourteenth birthday and I lost the only person who truly cared for me.

The reason I am able to communicate with you right now is because Elizabeth taught me how to write. She also showed me simple gestures that most people would understand like "yes" and "no".

Everything I tell you is my past. I may accidentally write present tense when I should write past tense, so please forgive me if I do.

My name is Clara and I was a fifteen and a half-year-old mute. I was an orphaned girl with an unpleasant past. I was a young woman in society's eyes, but still needed the love that a child would have received. This may all sound depressing to you but it has a nice ending for me.

**E**

After Elizabeth died, I was shipped off to an orphanage in Brooklyn, New York. I lived there for seven months, taking care of the little ones. The owner of the orphanage was a drunken old man who did unspeakable things to all of us children. The police found out about him and we were all split up. Most of the younger ones were sent off to good homes or other orphanages while the older kids were left to fend for themselves.

I continued living in the old orphanage until a fire destroyed it in '01. Until late 1902, I was living on the streets, grabbing a job wherever and whenever I could. I was the perfect example of a 'street rat'.

I met the Brooklyn newsies in September, 1902, and life, for the most part, got much better after that.

**Yes, it's short, but it's just a beginning. What do you think?**


	2. With Brooklyn

I was running from the police, who caught me snatching an apple from a vendor, when I ran into a boy. The two of us tumbled for a few seconds while his friends laughed at us, and then lay on our backs for a few more. He stood up first and offered me his hand, which I grasped immediately. The police turned the corner, saw us standing there, and came after me again, blowing their whistles the whole time.

"Da bulls! Beat it!"

The boy and his friends ran into a maze of alleys and dragged me with them. I was confused, scared, and soon, very, very lost. We turned left and right, went straight for a few blocks, and turned again and again.

"We lost 'em"

The boy and his three friends looked the same as I did: dirty, torn clothes; filthy from head to toe, and bent over panting, trying to catch their breath. One of them looked slightly different than the others; he carried himself differently-like an authority figure would- and carried a gold-tipped cane with him. He introduced himself first.

"Name's Conlon. Spot Conlon. What's yours?"

I stared at him silently, willing the words to come out of my mouth but being unable to make them. He stood as a king would when expecting an answer from one of his loyal subjects- tall and firm.

"Youse got a name?"

I nodded eagerly and an idea popped into my head. All four boys looked at me like I was crazy when I bent over to write in the dirt. I carefully spelled out the letters C-L-A-R-A and pointed at them when I was done.

"Clara. Youse dumb?"

My smile dropped quickly at his words, but I nodded anyway. The dark-haired boy, the one I ran into, gave me a reassuring smile and introduced himself as Dice. He introduced the other two boys as Pin-Head and Slick, with Pin-Head being the smaller one.

"Youse gotta place ta live?"

_Yep! I live in this magnificent palace with my large family and have tons of fancy dresses to choose from each day!_

My thoughts may have been a little sarcastic, but still. Do you think kids that have a home would look like they slept in the streets? I know that's what I looked like so I don't know why they even bothered to ask if I had a home.

I gave cane boy a look that he understood immediately. In return, he gave me a short glare that could have nearly frozen the gates of hell.

Dice spoke up saying, "She could stay whit' us."

It seemed that Spot listened to Dice because, within the next few minutes, I was being lead to the Brooklyn Lodging House.

**W**

I settled in quickly, a lot faster than I was expecting, and got used to all of the boys in the same house. Some of them made fun of me for being a mute but most of them left me alone. It wasn't that I was unwelcome, I was just more of a loner, I guess. Dice was my only true friend there. He would meet me outside of the factory that I worked at and we would go grab something to eat. We would talk of the old days, when we both had families, and of our future plans. Well, he did the talking; I just listened. So many times I wished I could tell him how I felt, how I grew up, what I wanted out of life. I couldn't though. I was cursed to be silent since my birth and to the day I die.

I think he tried to understand what life was like for me, but he couldn't. He was a natural talker- he would talk of anything under the sun and beyond. He just couldn't understand how I could be content with my life that I lived in silence. He wasn't that kind of person.

I lived with the Brooklyn newsies for about a month before they introduced me to the Manhattan newsies. They were nice people, they weren't as rough and tough as the Brooklyn newsies, but they were okay. Their leader was Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly, also known as Francis Sullivan. At times he could be a brazen young man, but was mostly kind and caring. His newsies were his family; something you didn't see much in Brooklyn. Sure we watched each other's backs, but we weren't like a family. We left that for the Manhattan dwellers.

Sometimes I felt more comfortable with Manhattan than I did with Brooklyn. They were more accepting and there were only one or two that enjoyed picking on me. It felt nice to pretend to have a family again. Still, I always felt that the only true family I would ever have was when I had Elizabeth.

Being left out of a lot of games and activities was not one of my favorite things about being mute, but it did give me chances to be alone. I also learned how to listen. You may think I would have learned that earlier but I never really had to fend for myself before. I never had to be overly aware of my surroundings; I was always protected.

However, in Brooklyn, when you're a fifteen, almost sixteen, year old girl, you have to be very careful. Especially when you can't call out for help, even though you probably wouldn't have received it if you did call out.

**S**

One fall day I went to go to work, a factory located in the heart of Brooklyn, and it started out like days normally do. I went in, nodded hello to my fellow workers, grabbed a raggedy old apron, and started working. My job was to clean the machines… while they were going. It may seem illegal and dangerous to you, and it probably was, but that was the way a lot of kids made money then. We just did it and hoped we wouldn't get anything caught in them.

All of us pulled our hair back if it was long enough, and most of us took of his or her apron to work. I tossed my apron on the floor beneath a window that showed us the busy Brooklyn streets. The machines were going pretty fast and you had to be quick to pull stuff out, or else risk getting caught up in them. Hands darted in and out of the big machines, cleaning them from time to time. Occasionally I could hear the wailing of another child, an unfortunate soul who had gotten a limb stuck. Sad to say, this was a daily occurrence.

I listened to the girl next to me talk about her family and how they were so poor that even her two-year-old brothers were working. I nodded and grimaced at the appropriate times, but mostly concentrated on my work. Not paying attention can get you in trouble, as the young girl next to me soon learned.

I had heard about how disgusting and gruesome it was to watch someone's limbs getting caught in one of the machines, but I had never really understood all the talk until then. The poor girl stuck her hand in to pull something out and didn't snatch her hand back fast enough. Her screams were heard throughout the factory and everyone nearby was splattered with her blood. Her arm was pulled clean off, leaving a bloody mess of a shoulder behind. I pulled her out of the machine with the help of some other children and watched helplessly as she collapsed on the floor in pain. I heard the crunching of her bones as the machine processed them and nearly threw up on the floor, while she continued her heart-wrenching screams.

I couldn't look at her arm or the machine even though I knew I had to stop the bleeding from her shoulder, so I placed my hands on her mutilated flesh and pressed down. Her screams increased in volume and I had to fight the urge to pull away. Everyone around us stood silently, waiting for someone to tell them what to do and watching the girl's pain with empty gazes. This is what factory work had done to many of the children there; made them emotionless soldiers with extreme battle scars. This was a whole new war. It was fought by children and ordered by business men and was being fought in our home country.

The children around us were told to retrieve her arm from the machine, since it had caused a jam somewhere, and the girl was taken away after receiving a thorough lashing. I snuck out, being unable to stay in the factory any longer.

Since then, I've had nightmares of that day. I'll never forget the petrified look on her face as her arm was torn off or how her screams of anguish echoed throughout the building.

**This is different than I normally do my stories so I would really like to know what you think. Thanks if you already reviewed!**


	3. Seventeen

Months later, I woke up on my seventeenth birthday, with screams tearing out of my mouth and sweat on my forehead. Instead of the girl at the factory, it was me that got caught in one of the machines, and I was getting torn to pieces.

I hugged my knees and tried to shake the terrible dream from my mind. When I looked around, I noticed that I had woken the newsies from their slumber. At that point, I was more concerned with my slow and painful, dream death than my roommates' beauty sleep. I was pretty sure they didn't appreciate it though. I ignored them and let my mind wander.

After I had worked for a while at the factory, I knew more than enough swear words to make a sailor blush. I was also accustom to children screaming in pain during work hours, and going back to the lodging house each day with coughs shaking my body. The filthy air always made someone sick and I was no different. I had gotten cuts and bruises from all the work I did with the machines and most of them always got infected. I was one of the lucky ones who never got a limb pulled off, though I did sustain other injuries like the ones I already mentioned.

It angered me when I noticed how the rich and normal people looked at all of the runaways and street children indifferently. We were the ones that made the clothes that they wore and the cigars that they used. We were the ones that went home, ragged and tired, worn out from a hard day, just to rise early the next day to repeat it all over again. We were the ones who wanted to fight but couldn't; the ones that called out but were never heard. We were the outcasts, beggars, lowlife, replaceable; the ones that no one knew about but the ones that did all the work. We were invisible, forgotten, tired fighters, who fought to survive. Most of us were rather proud to be street rats; that meant you were somebody. Others, however, could barely stand the life they lived, if you could even call it a life. We hardly lived; we just survived.

**I**

After work, I went wandering around Brooklyn alone. Dice had moved away a few months ago and I was left with no one else. After all, one can't stay a newsie forever.

That particular afternoon, I was in the center of Brooklyn, the busiest area possible, and I heard my father's name. I turned and, to my left, stood a two gentlemen conversing professionally. I did not know either of them but when a third man appeared, I recognized him immediately.

My father. The one who left me on Elizabeth's doorstep exactly thirteen years ago. He was here.

I watched as he walked over to the two men and joined in on their conversation. I suppose it would be normal for one to want to yell at him or to want to punch him as hard as one possibly could, but I didn't. The only thought that was running through my head was, "_It's him. He left me. No, _they_ left me."_

I calmly walked over and stood nearby. One of them finally took notice and pointed me out. When that happened, my father's face held a shocked look on his face and he took a tentative step toward me. I let him come within arm's reach of me and gave him a look that clearly said, "stop."

He broke the silence between us after a few moments by saying, "I- I didn't expect you to be… expect you to…"

The other men were obviously confused to how he knew me, a dirty street girl, no doubt a runaway. He hung his head slightly and paused for a moment.

"I'm sorry."

That was all I had to hear.

I left.

One doesn't leave their four-year-old child on the doorstep of a nursemaid, forget about them for thirteen years, and, when they see them leading a street life, say "I'm sorry." It just wasn't worth it.

I didn't run; I didn't try and hide; I didn't cry my seventeen-year-old heart out with regrets and wishes of the past. It was far too late for all of that; I simply walked away. I cried when I was four and realized that neither parent would come back for me; I cried when Elizabeth, the only one who truly loved me, died; I had not cried since and I had no desire to start again. Especially not over someone who didn't care at all.

I knew that he was following me; that he wanted to talk, but I had no room in my heart left for him.

He followed me to the docks where he confronted me. He told me that both he and my mother regretted what they did instantly. He told me about all of the pain they went through and all of the accusations from my brothers, who I thought were quite sweet for remembering and caring about me. He told me how he started to drink over the loss of me; how he nearly beat my mother to death before he realized what he was doing; how he tried for so long to find me, and how he just wanted to be a father and daughter again.

My empty, stone heart was broken. I didn't know what to think. I wasn't sure if I should love him for what he wanted or hate him for what he did. Internal conflicts raced through my brain faster than the speed of light. I was stuck like a broken radio, playing the same things over and over again in my head.

He broke through my train of thoughts by telling me that my mother died four years ago, overcome by grief. He told me how he nearly started drinking again, but the hope of finding me kept him going.

I knew then that I loved him, whether I thought I did before or not. I stepped in for a hug and relished in the love I had rarely felt. I almost felt complete for the second time in my life. The only other time was when I had Elizabeth and it felt very similar. Not the same, but similar.

A father's love is something only a father can give, and the same applies to a mother's love. Elizabeth's love was different; still love and in an equal amount, but different.

We pulled away and said goodbyes, knowing our paths were destined to cross, but not continue together. We both knew that we may meet again, but the possibility was slim.

He had made a life with high-end businessmen, while I lived with a crowd of newsies and worked in factories. We lived too different lives to be compatible with one another but we would always keep the other close in our hearts.

I knew that I then had everything I needed to live. Not to just survive with food and shelter, but I had found the one thing that would finally allow me to truly live.

**This one is only 1,200 words, a bit shorter than my last chapter, but I still like it! How 'bout you?**

**Do you remember the four things Elizabeth told Clara in the Prologue? Well, I'm placing them in the chapters. They may be obvious or they may be woven in like a faint thread on a large blanket, hard to find but it's still there. There may be more than one in each chapter and they may be different, depending on how you look at it. If you can find them, good for you! I haven't finished yet, so not all of them are in there. At least I didn't mean to place them in there. If you can find all of them, then you are better at finding them than me, and I wrote the story! **

**Ugh, I'm tired but I can't go to sleep. That's why I'm up now, messing up every word I type because I can't think straight. Oh the joy.**


	4. Earth's Angel

**Some people say that mute people can scream, they just can't talk, while others say that they can't at all. For this story, Clara can scream but that's about it. Just use your imagination! It would probably be best to ask someone who can't talk, but I don't know anyone who can't.**

Since my seventeenth birthday, something had changed. It might have been me, but things were different. Everyone acted more like a family than they did a few months back. Overall, it was a happier experience.

Spot and I became good friends; not like a love relationship, but more of a brother/sister relationship. He was the best friend I could confide in and I to him. We cared for and protected each other if they needed help, and usually listened to the other more than we did most newsies. I listened; Spot read what I wrote.

It was nearing Christmas and everyone was out buying last minute presents for their loved ones. The factories were hiring more and more workers to get the jobs done faster, while the newsies were selling more and more papers, so much that they normally had to go back to buy another round.

There was a gang that called themselves Macy's Gang, and they got especially rowdy around Christmas. The more people that went to buy gifts, the more people to rob. That was their way of thinking and so far they had done pretty well. I saw some of them running off with expensive items that the rich would not notice until they got home, and others running off with a bagful of money. I would have stopped them, but they could have taken me down instantly. They always traveled in packs and, even if you only saw one member of the gang, you knew that at least six more were hiding out somewhere. That made it harder for police to take them down and less likely that someone would have the guts to confront them.

It was obvious when one was a member of the gang; they all had an 'M' carved in their cheek, leaving a permanent scar. They even had a secret handshake and code, which I found out quickly, that allowed one to pass by without harm. The "secret" handshake and code meant you were part of the gang, or, in my case, very observant. For part of the code, you had to slice the 'M' on your cheek with your finger.

They were a dangerous bunch that enjoyed the termination of a rival gang's members. They weren't people to mess with for fun, but if you did, your life would be at stake.

**E**

I was alone two days before Christmas, window shopping and wishing I had some of the things in the stores. Beautiful dresses stood on display and candies of all sorts were placed in jars and sorted throughout the rooms. In every store, a grand Christmas tree stood, with a golden star on the very top and tasty gingerbread men hung off the branches. The rich would go in and buy the most beautiful silks and satins and the little girls would beg for the darling porcelain doll. Little boys asked for marbles and would receive a large bag of them on Christmas day, while the adults bought furs and gloves for each other.

I noticed a small girl, no older than five or six, looking longingly into the decorated stores. She wore a tattered, brown dress and had her hair covered with a floral handkerchief. She had no shoes and to coat to wear and shivers racked her small body. I looked a lot like her, except that I had worn out boots and no handkerchief. Both of had turned a pale blue in the cold, but we were hardened, young soldiers; we could handle it.

I watched her turn away as a single tear fell down her face. I looked in to find what she had seen and saw a mother fretting over her children. The mother was taking great care to make sure her little ones were warm and comfortable before they left the store, and they were having great fun trying to escape her coddling. When she looked up and saw me staring through the window, she turned her back on me and led the children away.

My heart ached when the woman displayed her hatred for me and my kind. I also yearned for the love of _my_ mother; I wanted to feel her arms surround me in a warm, loving embrace. I turned, just as the little girl had, and walked away from that place. I wanted to find her and help her; I did know how she felt, so I thought I would be able to help.

I walked down the streets for a while before I found her. She had been caught by a member of Macy's gang and was held at knife point. The poor girl was terrified and the more she struggled, the closer the knife was held. The boy who held the knife was telling her things that I will not repeat here.

They stood in an alley that lay behind a majestic church. The people that left the church never heard the struggle that was taking place just a few yards behind them. The Macy's gang member knew that people often left things in the churches by accident and that churches had many beautiful, expensive things. I overheard him telling the girl to get them into the church without being seen or else the knife "might slip."

She may have been small and poor, but she was quite brave from that point on. She announced loudly that the gang was not going to get into the church with her help. Even as the blade pressed against her neck, she held her ground.

By then, the congregation had gathered back in the church for another Mass and there was no possible way for the gang to sneak inside. The boy's face turned red with fury and he sliced the blade at the girl's neck and ran away, with multiple profanities escaping his lips.

I ran over instantly and tore off the hem of my dress to press against her neck.

"Am I going to heaven?"

Her soft voice pulled my eyes to her face and I shook my head. I didn't want her to go; she was far too young. I concentrated on keeping pressure on the knife would without suffocating the girl, who turned her eyes up to the sky.

"Thank you for helping me," she told me with some effort, "but I'm leaving now."

I shook my head in denial; she was still a child, her time shouldn't have come yet.

"God calls the children too, you know," she offered me a weak smile, "just like He's calling me."

She was fading and I knew it. I could not help her any more.

"You sa- you saw me. I cried. You don' know why though."

Her lips barely moved and I had to lean in to hear what she told me.

"I din' cry fo- for me; I cried for th' oth'rs like me. Th' ones th't need 'elp too."

By then, tear streaks had covered my cheeks and the small girl reached up to wipe them away.

"Cry fo- them, not- not for me. I'm goin' to 'even now."

**S**

She was buried in the city's cemetery. The people that came were mostly street kids, but a few were people who had known her for all of her short life. Everyone that knew her said she was the sweetest little girl they had ever met. No one had a dry eye that day.

The engraving on her stone read:

_Mary Rose_

_1896 - 1901_

_An angel on earth._

I looked at the sky just as she had before she died. I knew she was in Heaven; she was safe and happy. She no longer had to deal with the suffering that Brooklyn street children had to. She was home now and for that I was eternally grateful. I thought she was too young to go, but God thought differently. I guess He wanted earth's angel to be with Him in Paradise and suffer no longer.


	5. After the Holidays

**If you can find one (or more) of the four things from the prologue; that's great! But I'm not going to say if I put any in the chapters and, if so, which one(s). That's for you guys to figure out for yourselves. Stories are for imagining and thinking aren't they?**

About a week later, Spot got an offer for a leadership position in some big business. He didn't want to leave us, but he knew it was probably time for him to move on in life. We convinced him to and, after the sad goodbyes, he hopped on the train, waved once, and didn't look back.

We were all sad to see him go; he was a wonderful leader and friend to all of us, but we also knew that he had to move on. We never gained an official leader, but Pike, a rough and rowdy boy with a caring heart, attempted to fill Spot's shoes. He did a good job but never fully succeeded. Spot was just too good at his job for anyone else to even hold a candle to him. Spot was offered the job because the people who hired him had heard all about his ambition and way of getting things done. Pike didn't quite have that ambition, though he tried, and he wasn't listened to as much as Spot had been.

Everything was worked out pretty quickly and life continued on, almost normally.

**C**

After the holidays, the factories let go of a lot of kids, me included. I took a job almost anywhere I could- seamstress, maid, nursemaid, errand-runner- anything that I could do, and that paid enough, so I could sleep in the lodging house each night. I had to travel long distances at times just to get to my work place and I had to buy new clothes for other jobs. I quit a maid job after the lady's lover started getting a bit too close for my comfort and I was fired from another when one of my fellow workers accused me of stealing a watch. Why they believed him, I don't know; the watch was still there.

My next job was in a fancy house. I was a nursemaid to three little "darlings". Their mother adored them; their father ignored them, and I did neither. They were spoiled brats when I first came to see them, and they were all under the age of seven! The oldest, Thomas, was six; next was Evelyn, who was five, and last was Joseph, the youngest at age three. They didn't ask, they demanded. They didn't talk _to_ you, they talked _at_ you. If anything was out of order in even the slightest way, they would let you know immediately.

They soon learned not to get on me for anything like that. Even though I couldn't tell them, they learned.

I noticed a difference after a while of staying with them, but they had to move so I lost that job and some small friends. I was glad that they learned though; they would make a lot more friends that way than how they were before.

There is really no story to tell about being a seamstress; it ended about as quickly as I got the job. Nothing really happened, it just didn't work out.

Being an errand-runner was an interesting job.I went all over Brooklyn doing all sorts of odd jobs.

One time I had to go through the east side of Brooklyn to deliver some lace to a newlywed couple who lived on the edge of Queens and Brooklyn. Maybe it's changed, but then it wasn't a very safe place to go.

I delivered the lace on time, but got lost on the way back. Soon, the sky turned from blue to black, and the moon shone on the dimly lit streets. All was quiet, too quiet for a normal place, but pretty normal for this area. Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me close.

"_Hello little girl."_

I would have punched him in the stomach but he had hold of both my arms, holding tightly enough to leave bruises. Someone else held a knife to my throat as they forced me down the street and into a small warehouse.

My brain was spitting out random thoughts faster than I could process. I tried to sort practicality from panic, but my mind was so haywire I couldn't think straight. The next moments were fuzzy, but I remember suddenly seeing one of the guys on the ground, holding his nose in pain.

I looked up in shock as a familiar voice called out, "Leave 'er alone!"

Lo and behold, who would stand at the entrance but Brooklyn's former leader himself. Spot Conlon stood, cane by his side and slingshot in hand, as angry as could be. He swiftly brought the second male down and pulled me out of the building as fast as he could.

We ran for a good while before we slowed to catch our breath. I did nothing but stare at him as he regained his breath and stood. It had been so soon since he left us.

"What?"

Caught in the act, I turned away slightly and he stepped closer.

"Dey didn't 'urt you did dey?"

I shook my head 'no' and, filled with mixed up emotions, I grabbed him in a hug. He froze for a minute then hugged me back. It was like having one of my long-lost brothers come back and find me. I was completely overjoyed above all, while other emotions lay scattered in my heart.

We stayed like that as the sun rose and the sky turned light. I hugged him tightly, never wanting to let another brother go, and he held on just the same.

"We'se a pair; ain't nothing gonna split us."

His confidence was reassuring and he stayed by my side as we walked back home.

**I know it's short, but I still like it! How 'bout you?**


End file.
